


In Another Lifetime

by aritzen



Category: Gintama
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-19 14:51:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3614004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aritzen/pseuds/aritzen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Learning to let go of ties that bind too tight. 3Z AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. and when we look back

“So it has come to this.”

“Come to what?”

“You. Me. This moment.”

Takasugi paused and stared at Kamui as if the latter had just said, “Let’s go breakdancing.” He furrowed his brows. “You stole that from somewhere.”

Kamui flashed a smile and moved away from the window, crossing the room to join Takasugi on the floor. “I’m bored and you’re doing homework,” he said, glancing at the open textbook and the sheets of paper on the low table. “How did it come to this?”

“You didn’t want to go home,” Takasugi pointed out. “And the problem set is due tomorrow.”

“No, I mean...” He pressed their shoulders together. “How did we end up like this?”

Takasugi stiffened and gave Kamui a long, sideways look, searching the blue eyes for a hint of mischief but finding hesitation instead. He jerked back and caught Kamui’s hand as it reached for his face.

“There’s something on your face.”

Takasugi darted a glance at the warm hand in his grip and retorted, “There’s nothing on my face.”

“There’s something on your face,” Kamui repeated. “Just like there was something on your face back then, except it’s different now.”

There was a beat, and Takasugi looked away, loosening his grip on Kamui’s hand. The sound of rain drumming against the window suddenly filled the room, erratic as the wind came and went. It’d been raining that afternoon too, when they met for the first time outside the gates of Gintama High.

 

 


	2. we are all blind in some ways

Takasugi squinted at the three approaching figures and flexed his left hand to ease the dull pain in his arm. His old injury had been acting up all morning, reacting to the pressure changes in the atmosphere, remembering the instant the bone had snapped more than ten years ago. When the wind shifted again, it brought the smell of rain, and he glanced overhead at the dark storm clouds, his good eye narrowed.

 _We know what you want_ , read the note he’d found in his shoe box that morning. _Meet us at the gate at noon._

The three uniformed students stopped in front of him and fanned out into an arc. “You’re Takasugi Shinsuke?” the one in the middle asked, smacking his gum as he looked Takasugi over, a moonflower tattoo visible on his neck. “Shit, you’re smaller than I thought,” he muttered. “Is this a thing now? Kamui’s fucking short too.”

Takasugi returned a hard gaze, recognizing the hostility and the name but unable to place a context. Behind him, the school gate creaked, sharp against the background buzz of lunchtime chatters. Someone in the building shouted something. “You’re here to mark your territories,” he stated flatly, taking in their aggressive stance and derisive expressions. The note had been a feint, as it usually was. People like them no longer sparked his interest and barely even irritated him. He’d been looking for four years, but nobody had the information he wanted, and it was likely that nobody ever would. He was still looking only because he didn’t know what else he could do, how else he should live.

“Oh, we’re here to give you what you want, buddy,” the one on the right said with a sneer, cracking his knuckles. “That is, after we get what we want!” he added and swung his fist.

Dodging, Takasugi struck the guy’s nose with the bottom of his palm and heard a satisfying grunt. He turned to face the other two but noticed the lunge from his left a split second too late. His back hit the wall, and gritting his teeth, he kicked at his opponent’s ankle. There was a hiss, and space opened up in front of him. A raindrop landed on his cheek, and he eyed the trio before him, clenching his fist to test the strength in his left arm. Adrenaline masked the pain, but he hated fighting on rainy days. He hated the handicap—a weaker arm and a blind eye. He hated the car accident that took them all. He hated—

“That’s enough,” a lazy voice called out, and the four of them turned their heads in response.

Takasugi frowned when Ginpachi stepped out of the school gate. In the background, the school bell rang. “You three there,” Ginpachi continued, looking at the three students slowly backing away from Takasugi. “That uniform. You from Yato Industrial High? Wanna give your names?”

The student with the moonflower tattoo spat on the ground and nodded to the other two. “Let’s go.”

Ginpachi harrumphed and, sensing a crowd gathering behind him, turned to wave off the curious students. “Go back to class,” he ordered as rain began to fall in earnest. “Nothing to see here. Go, shoo!”

“Shinsuke-sama!” Matako shouted, pushing her way through the dispersing crowd, and glowered at Ginpachi when he raised an arm to block her path.

“Go back to class,” Ginpachi repeated in a sharper tone and glanced at Takasugi. “You too,” he added. Extending his hand, he gestured toward the gate and waited until Takasugi pushed himself away from the wall. There was a roll of thunder, and Ginpachi sighed when he spotted Principal Hata standing in the entrance way of the classroom building.

“Sakata-san, Takasugi-kun,” Hata said as the two climbed the steps to the building. “My office please.”

 

Takasugi yanked off the towel that Ginpachi had tossed onto his head and looked across the table at Hata. In the corner of the room, Ginpachi opened a cupboard and pulled out a tea box. The sound of boiling water died down, no longer drowning out the rain striking against the window and the clock ticking on the wall.

“Takasugi-kun,” Hata began after throwing Ginpachi an irritated look. “You’ve gotten into too many fights lately. The school board won’t stand for that.”

“I don’t see the school board,” Ginpachi remarked and settled into the chair next to Takasugi, but not before placing a cup of jasmine tea in front of his student. Ignoring Takasugi’s perplexed expression, he slouched in his seat and rested one ankle on his knee, dangling a lollipop stick from his mouth.

“I represent the school board,” Hata said. “And the school board has decided that Takasugi Shinsuke is to be expelled.”

The skin around Takasugi’s eyes tightened, and Ginpachi exclaimed, “Huh? Wait a sec! What’d he do? Killed a person? Torched a house? Kicked a puppy? He was just fending off some bullies from another school.”

“He disrupted classes.”

“It was lunch break.”

“He’s a bad influence on the other students.”

“Have you seen his test scores? He could probably do better than Zura if you didn’t suspend him so often.”

“He’s causing trouble for the school.”

Ginpachi made an exasperated sound and set his foot on the floor as he shifted in his seat. “Don’t give me that crap. I’m talking to the school board first. Until then, you’re not expelling him.” He glanced at the untouched cup of tea and then his watch. “Excuse me, Principal Hata,” he said, rising to his feet. “I have a class to take care of, or else they might all end up expelled for flying paper planes in the classroom. Let’s go, Takasugi.”

“Sakata-san,” Hata called out, and Ginpachi halted his footsteps. “He still has to be suspended for the rest of the week for the fight today.”

Ginpachi exchanged a long look with Hata before he turned away and ushered Takasugi out the door. “See you at the board meeting,” he said and stepped into the hallway, grumbling as he walked down the corridor with Takasugi. “Damn Otose for retiring, and damn the school district for assigning us this joke of a principal. Listen up, Takasugi,” he raised his voice. “Don’t go pickin’ fights for the rest of this week, y’hear? I don’t want Principal Baka latching on to any excuse to expel you.”

“Why do you care?”

“Oh, one more thing,” Ginpachi continued. “You’re on cleaning duty for the rest of the school year, starting next Monday. No complaining.” Slowing to a stop as they arrived at the building entrance, he removed the lollipop from his mouth and asked in a softer tone, “You got an umbrella? Need to pick up anything from the classroom?”

Takasugi paused and held Ginpachi’s gaze, unable to see through the bored expression. Suddenly aware of the ache that had returned to his left arm, he broke eye contact and raised his hand to indicate that he was fine, not looking back as he changed his shoes and exited the building. The rain was loud, beating against the ground and his umbrella. He frowned when he caught sight of a person standing outside the gate. Purple umbrella, red hair, a bandage across his nose, and a pleasant smile.

“Wow, I didn’t have to wait for long. Are you Takasugi Shinsuke?”

Mildly irked, Takasugi responded, “I’ll take a rain check.”

“I’ll hold you to that, because I want to see for myself if you really overpowered the former gang leader of Yato High. The last time Yagan walked around with his tail between his legs was when I beat him and took over the school.”

“It was the teacher,” Takasugi mumbled.

“What?”

A shout came from the school building, and Takasugi turned, looking up until he saw Kagura leaning out an open classroom window on the third floor.

“Kamui!” she yelled. “You stupid brother! What the hell are you doing here? Are you skipping class? I’m telling on you! Don’t you dare cause trouble here, dammit!”

Takasugi shot a glance at the redhead standing next to him and furrowed his brows. He had no idea Kagura had a brother, but then again, they’d never really talked before, despite going a long way back. He could see the resemblance between the siblings now, but there was something fundamentally different about the smiles on their faces: one was genuine, and the other was empty.

“It’s getting noisy,” Kamui said lightly, his eyes fixed on his sister. His smile brightened, and he waved in acknowledgement.

“Somehow that really pisses me off!” Kagura shouted, and planted a foot on the window sill, yelling over her shoulder when Shinpachi pulled her back. Their argument ceased abruptly when Ginpachi swatted their heads, and they backed away along with the rest of their classmates that had clustered around the windows.

After smacking Matako and Bansai on the back of their heads again to make them return to their seats, Ginpachi slammed the window shut and cast a sidelong glance at Takasugi before turning away, his expression too distant to discern.

“Is that the teacher?” Kamui asked, and when Takasugi didn’t respond, he continued with a smile, “Well, it’s been interesting. See you around.”

Takasugi watched as Kamui headed down the street, his gaze falling on the long braid peeking out from underneath the purple umbrella and the golden words embroidered on the back of the coat. The words jolted a memory, and Takasugi tightened his grip on his umbrella—Kamui was the one who’d caused an upheaval at Yato High after transferring from Harusame High a while back. Taking off in the direction of his apartment, he felt a corner of his mouth tilting upward. Maybe this was something worth pursuing.

 

 


	3. so our speculation is endless

“Shinsuke, you should lie down.”

“But—”

“You have a high fever. Go lie down. I’m going out to buy some medicine. I’ll be right back.”

 _No_ , he wants to say. _Don’t—_

Takasugi jerked awake when the phone rang.

Momentarily disoriented, he stared at the phone, remembering it being a gray touch-tone phone and not a black cellphone. He remembered picking it up, half-asleep and feverish, and hearing the news from a solemn voice. He remembered going to the hospital in the rain, dazed and cold, and fighting the nurses who claimed he was too ill to speak to the police. He remembered looking into the indifferent eyes of a monocled officer, furious but helpless, and then waking up in a hospital bed a little too late.

The ringing cut off and Takasugi jolted, as if a hypnotist had snapped her fingers to bring him back to the present. Gritting his teeth, he recalled: That was then, this is now. There could be no more voices on the other side of the telephone to take away people important to him, because unlike four years ago, he had nothing left to be taken from him.

The phone beeped. A new voice message. A beat later, he flipped open the phone only to shut it again, annoyed, when the screen displayed a missed call from Zura. In hindsight, it made sense. Nobody but the wig-head would call him in between classes, but a part of him had perhaps expected a call from an unfamiliar number. Telemarketing, maybe, or a wrong number, because the call he had been waiting for would never come, and no one else with any reason to contact him would have his number.

His gaze went from the clock to the calendar, and he was back in the rain again, face-to-face with the redhead wearing a smile that said absolutely nothing. He wasn’t supposed to get into fights for the rest of the week, but he had questions, and they were getting answers. Sitting up on his bed, he lifted a corner of the curtain and peered out the window, closing his eyes when the bright sunlight hit his face, warm against his skin.

Time to pay Yato High a visit.

 

Under the glare of the sun, the rundown building of Yato Industrial High appeared lifeless instead of foreboding. The graffiti on the gray, stained walls spoke of threats and pride, yet those words seemed empty, carrying little of the weight in the rumors circulating about the students of Yato High. Frowning, Takasugi looked through the school gates, searching among the scattered groups of students, and turned when he heard a sound from the wall next to him. He paused when he caught sight of a moonflower tattoo on the other person’s neck.

“The fuck are you doing here,” Yagan said from atop the wall, taken aback and upset.

Mirroring Yagan’s antipathy, Takasugi said, “I have no business with you.”

“Yeah? Well I do with you,” Yagan said and jumped off the wall, landing on his feet with a thud. “We got a fight to finish.” Rolling his shoulders, he continued with a dark smile, “Lucky you, it’s one-on-one today.”

Narrowing his good eye, Takasugi took a step back and ducked when the first blow came at his head. He swept past Yagan, backing up as he tracked and dodged his opponent’s punches and kicks. It was pissing him off that he couldn’t fight back, and he could tell from Yagan’s infuriated expression that it was pissing _him_ off, too.

“Are you a fucking pussy?” Yagan yelled, increasing the pace of his strikes. “No balls to fight me when there’s no teacher watching your back, is it?!”

Takasugi clenched his jaw, knowing that he was at the limit of his patience. Where exactly was the line between “picking a fight” and “defending yourself”? What exactly did he have to lose if he were expelled? The only people he would disappoint were dead and had been for years. Nothing would change. He was standing here, doing this, _because_ they were dead. Killed. Murdered. His parents. His guardian. Maybe in another world, the two cars didn’t collide on the highway. Maybe in another lifetime, Shoyo-sensei didn’t leave the house to buy medicine. But not in this world, not in this lifetime.

Adjusting his footing, Takasugi fisted his hands, ready to block and counter the next attack, but he paused when he noticed Yagan’s widened eyes directed at something behind him. Before he could turn around and before Yagan could pull back the strike, someone reached past his shoulder and grabbed Yagan’s fist, stopping the punch. A shadow fell overhead, and he looked up, finding a purple umbrella blocking the sun.

“Kamui,” Yagan growled.

“It’s not nice to steal someone else’s prey,” Kamui said, smiling. Something fleeted across his face, and the pitch of his voice dropped. “Back off. He’s mine.”

Yagan yanked his hand out of Kamui’s grasp, trying not to wince, but the red marks on his hand reflected nothing but pain. His nostrils flared, and he glared at Takasugi, his expression seething with poison as he slowly backed away. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he wanted to say something, but he only threw Kamui a dirty glance before he turned and stalked off.

Once Yagan was out of sight, Takasugi looked over his shoulder, suddenly becoming aware of how close Kamui was standing. Their eyes met, and an odd weight settled on his chest when he realized the warmth on his back wasn’t from the sun but a person.

“I don’t really get it,” said Kamui, holding Takasugi’s gaze. “But I’m assuming you have a very good reason for not fighting back, otherwise I’m gonna be disappointed.”

Letting out a small, bitter laugh, Takasugi looked away and said, “It’s just an empty promise, nothing more.” Just empty words to a person and a grave. He stepped to the side to face Kamui and continued, feeling the coolness on his back, “You went to Harusame High before you transferred to Yato High.”

“Yeah,” Kamui said with a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

“Did you also attend Harusame Middle School?”

“For a bit. Why are you asking?”

Takasugi paused when he heard Kamui’s response. “Were you there four years ago?” he asked, furrowing his brows.

Kamui tilted his head while his gaze drifted to the sky, absorbed and distant. “No,” he said simply and smiled at Takasugi. “What happened at the school four years ago?”

Except for a faint trace of curiosity, Kamui’s expression was unreadable. A thousand new questions popped into Takasugi’s head as he tried to find a crack in the smiling facade, but he knew that any answer he received now would lead to the same dead end. He looked away and said, “Never mind. I’m done here.” He walked past Kamui, unable to shake off the unease and the lingering warmth on his back.

 

 


	4. what might have been

_Love is a debt. When the bill comes, you pay in grief._

Who said that?

If that was the nature of love, what did that make cemeteries?

Takasugi paused at the turn of the stone path and glanced at the figure standing in front of a tombstone near the other end of the row. It was an annual encounter that had started before they knew each other as classmates, like two strangers entering a coffee shop and recognizing each other as the one they’d see on the bus every day. She was alone this year, and Takasugi realized why it’d struck him the other day to find out she had a brother—he’d only seen her with her father before and never with another person.

As if sensing his presence, Kagura tilted her purple umbrella and looked in his direction. Their eyes met briefly, until he noticed the fresh chrysanthemums sitting on top of Shoyo-sensei’s grave. Last year, it had been peonies, and the year before, lilies. His stomach churned, and he stepped up to the tombstone, torn between the comfort of knowing there was someone who still remembered Shoyo-sensei and the unease of not knowing who that person was.

The flowers drooped in the summer heat, and a sparrow landed next to the censer, its beak hanging open as if in protest of the heat emanating from the pavement. It flew away at the sound of approaching footsteps, and Takasugi looked up in response. Kagura stopped before him and smiled.

“Y’know,” she said. “It’s kinda funny how we’ve never had the chance to talk.”

“You always come here with your father.”

Kagura let out a sheepish laugh. “Yeah,” she said and tossed a glance at the grave she’d been visiting. “Papi’s busy with school stuff this year, so he couldn’t make it.” Her voice lowered. “He’s always like that. Mami’s probably used to it.” She fixed her gaze on the headstone in front of them and asked, “And you? Is this your family?”

Taking in the name carved into the marble, Takasugi replied, “Yeah.” Everyone had their own definition of family and home, and if Kagura wondered about the last name, she didn’t say anything.

“He passed away on the same day as Mami,” Kagura observed, and Takasugi blinked. “I guess that makes sense. I just didn’t think—” She paused. “Weird, how the world works sometimes.”

“How did your mother die?” Takasugi asked, frowning. Thousands of people died each day, and coincidences were sometimes just that—coincidences, but he had nothing else to follow, to lead him to the real murderer. Grasping at straws was better than walking away.

A sad smile appeared on Kagura’s face. “She was sick,” she said simply.

The air stood still, hot and humid, while the cicadas droned. _And sometimes, coincidences are just that—coincidences._ The world was a small place. “Your brother never comes,” Takasugi said.

“Oh, him.” Kagura flashed a pained smile. “I never know what he’s thinking. He skipped Mami’s funeral. He disappears whenever we visit Mami. Papi thinks he’s just being rebellious, but...” She shifted her umbrella, and a distant look settled over her face. “Papi also didn’t see Nii-chan’s expression when Mami died. I thought he was crying when the nurses pried Mami’s hand out of his and pulled him away, but there was nothing on his face. It was completely blank. Sometimes I wonder if he’s missing something in his brain.” She looked at Takasugi. “Hey, this is gonna sound strange, especially since I don’t know what’s going on between you and Nii-chan, but if you see him today—” her voice cracked “—can you tell him to come home?”

Takasugi furrowed his brows. “What makes you think I’ll see him today?”

Kagura looked away. “Or anyone, really. If anyone sees him.”

 _That’s unlikely_ , Takasugi wanted to say, but his cellphone rang before he could open his mouth. Scowling, he dug the phone out of his pocket and flipped it open to drop the call. He really needed to figure out how to put it on silent one of these days.

“Is that Zura?” Kagura asked, mildly amused.

Takasugi gave her an odd look and stared at the phone in his hand.

Kagura grinned. “He was going on and on about how you always ignore his calls the other day,” she explained. “You should answer his call. I think he’s worried about you.” She clapped him on his shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger when you come back to class, okay? I’m really glad I talked to you today. Too bad we missed Ginpachi-sensei.”

Takasugi’s gaze fell onto the chrysanthemums. “He was here?”

“Yeah. He was already leaving when I arrived, though, so we didn’t really chat.” Kagura swept her gaze across the cemetery. “Everyone’s lost someone, huh?” She smiled, as if trying to reassure the two of them. “Don’t forget to call Zura,” she shouted as she headed toward the gate. “And I’ll see you at school!”

Takasugi could feel a corner of his mouth tugging upward into a bittersweet smile, but it faded away when he glanced at the yellow chrysanthemums. It bothered him to think that the flowers each year were from Sakata Ginpachi, and it bothered him even more to think that he was not okay with it. Suppressing a sigh, he brought up the contact list on his phone, scrolled down to “Zura,” and pushed the call button.

“Takasugi, you finally called me back! Why were you ignoring my calls? Do you know how worried I was? Did you get my voice messages? I also sent you text messages. Did you get those? I even stopped by your apartment after school, but you weren’t there. Where have you been? You’re on suspension. You didn’t go out and cause more trouble, did you? Because—”

“Zura,” Takasugi interrupted.

“It’s not Zura, it’s Katsura. Do you know how hard Ginpachi-sensei is working to—”

“Why did you call me?”

“What?”

“Why did you call me?” Takasugi repeated.

“I explained—oh no, my messages got lost after all. You really can’t trust technology these days—”

“I got them,” Takasugi snapped. “I just didn’t look at them.”

“You got them,” Katsura echoed in disbelief. “Well why didn’t you look at them? If you had—”

“Just tell me why you called me.”

There was a pause, then Katsura said in a quiet voice, “I wanted to ask you if you’ve already made plans for Obon.”

Takasugi tightened his grip on his phone and looked at the sky, cloudless but hazy.

“I know you always say no,” Katsura continued. “But if you don’t have plans yet, I really wish you would come to the festival with us this year. I even asked our classmates to join us, so it won’t just be me and Elizabeth this time. Matako-dono said she’ll come if you come and—”

“I’ll pass,” Takasugi said.

“Again?” Katsura said after a beat. When Takasugi didn’t respond, he asked, “May I ask why?”

Takasugi wiped the sweat from his nose with the back of his wrist and replied, “Because I don’t feel like it.”

The silence on the other end dragged, and Katsura’s voice was crestfallen when he spoke again. “Don’t feel like going to Obon or don’t feel like coming with us?”

Takasugi remained silent as he thought back to the loud festival and the floating lanterns. The last time they went to Obon together was four years ago, right after Shoyo-sensei’s death. It used to be a tradition, when they were still at the orphanage and after they were adopted, to go to the festival together, to stuff their faces with greasy food, and to send paper lanterns down the river for their parents. But then one day, he had an extra lantern to light, and he couldn’t do it anymore.

“Somehow I feel like we’re drifting farther and farther apart,” Katsura was saying. “I was so happy when I found out we were going to the same high school, and even happier when we ended up in the same class, but it seems like we’re understanding each other less and less even though we see each other more often than before. I feel like we’re living in worlds that look the same but are very different. How did this happen?”

Gritting his teeth, Takasugi lowered his hand and snapped the phone shut.

_Our bubbles met midair._

His left arm ached, and he inhaled a deep breath, slowly unclenching his fist.

_But one’s floating upward while the other isn’t. One’s attracting more bubbles and growing bigger, and the other isn’t._

Distance is subjective.

“That’s all.”

 

The wind was picking up when he left the cemetery, and he could see thick clouds gathering in the western sky, in the dark red sunset. The trees rustled above him as he cut through the park on his way home, but he paused when he caught sight of a familiar silhouette sitting on top of the playground slide and holding an umbrella.

Kamui noticed him at the same time and waved, smiling. “What are you doing here?” he asked, chewing on a popsicle stick. He was without his coat, the light-colored T-shirt making him seem younger than he actually was.

“That’s my question,” Takasugi said, walking up to the slide. “Your sister was looking for you.”

Even in the twilight, the hesitation in Kamui’s smile, however slight, was discernible. “Where did you see her?”

“Your sister wants you to go home,” Takasugi said dryly. “I’ve relayed her message. See you later.” He raised his arm and turned.

“Hey wait,” Kamui called out, and Takasugi halted his footsteps. “Do you want to get dinner?” Kamui asked as he hopped off the slide. “I’m hungry.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first sentence is a quote from _Children of God_ by Mary Doria Russell, but I recommend its prequel _The Sparrow_ instead.


	5. and what might come to be

The light flickered on, and the front door closed with a click.

Kamui’s voice came from the kitchen. “Your fridge is really pathetic.”

Takasugi slammed the window in his room shut and replied, “My fridge is fine.” He frowned at the puddle of water on the hardwood floor and strode back into the kitchen, stopping dead when he saw Kamui peering into the mini-fridge. “Oi,” he said. “What are you doing? You just ate enough food to feed ten people.”

“There is nothing in your fridge,” said Kamui.

“Yes.”

“There is nothing,” Kamui repeated, “in your fridge.”

Mildly annoyed, Takasugi glanced at the towel sitting on the far counter and said to Kamui, “Either move out of the way or pass me the towel.”

“Why is there nothing in your fridge?”

“Will you shut up about that?” Takasugi snapped, contemplating the option of shoving the redhead aside, but he paused when Kamui reached over the purple umbrella open on the floor and grabbed the towel for him.

“If it weren’t hailing outside,” Kamui said as he handed Takasugi the towel and followed the latter out of the kitchen, “I’d drag you to the grocery store right now. How can you live without anything in your fridge?”

“How can _anyone_ live in this world?” Takasugi muttered and dropped the towel onto the wet floor, crouching down to wipe away the rain water.

“A wise man once said,” Kamui continued as if Takasugi hadn’t said anything, “All you need is good food and—” His voice cut off when another wave of rain and ice pounded against the window. “And more good food,” he added, planting himself on the low window sill, back against the corner with one leg drawn up. “I can’t believe there’s nothing in your fridge.”

Takasugi glanced up and caught the mock disdain in the blue eyes, knowing that Kamui might as well have turned up his nose and said, “I have misjudged you.”

“You mean all _you_ need is food and more food,” Takasugi retorted, returning to the kitchen to wring out the towel, still unable to decide whether he should lose or (almost) regain his already-lost faith in humanity. Somehow, for some reason, there existed a place on Earth, that wasn’t also an all-you-can-eat buffet, where Kamui could inhale literally a ton of food for cheap. A friend’s mother owned that place, or so he claimed. “I should call your sister so she can pick you up,” Takasugi grumbled, ignoring the fact that it was an empty threat.

“You have her number?” Kamui asked, incredulous. “That’s not fair. You don’t have my number.”

Takasugi could only gape at Kamui in response when he stepped out of the kitchen and into his room, mute from the sheer absurdity of the conversation. Finally, he said, “How would you know I don’t have your number?”

Kamui smiled, a maddeningly familiar expression and markedly guarded. “I don’t have a phone,” he said simply, his unchanging smile feigning idiocy and swallowing unspoken words. Before Takasugi could react, he continued, “Say, are you investigating the death near Harusame Middle School four years ago?”

Takasugi paused, eyeing Kamui with a hint of distrust, his previous frustration forgotten. “I thought you didn’t know anything about that.”

“I didn’t,” Kamui replied. “But I asked around.” His smile faded, but his gaze remained bright and curious. “Why are you looking into that?”

“What did you find out?”

“Very little,” Kamui said, a corner of his mouth curving up into a disappointed smile. “Just the rumor that a gang dispute had resulted in a death, but it didn’t sound like the person who died had anything to do with the school. Isn’t the case closed? What does it have to do with you?”

 _Everything_ , Takasugi wanted to say. _Everything_.

Watching for slight changes in Kamui’s expression, he said, “He’s not someone who’d get caught up in a meaningless fight, especially not when he has—” Takasugi stopped when he realized he’d slipped into the present tense. He clenched his fists. “Something happened,” he continued in a low voice. “Either the cops have no clue or they’re covering up. I want to know who really killed him and why.”

“So who was he?”

Takasugi tensed as memories flooded back, from the awkward first meeting with Shoyo-sensei to the quiet childhood he’d regained after the car accident. And then just like that, they were all gone again. Looking away, he sat down on the floor, next to the low table, and asked, “What’s any of this to you?”

“You owe me a good fight,” Kamui said. “And this is holding you back.”

Takasugi fixed his eyes on Kamui, thoughts racing. No, this wasn’t holding him back—it was driving him forward, however twisted the road was. He thought about the parents that he barely remembered and the adoptive parent that’d become everything to him. He thought about the peers that came and went and the person sitting in front of him. He thought about yesterday and today, then he said, “Your mother died on the same day.”

There was a beat, and Kamui asked, his smile unwavering but strained, “Do you think the two deaths are related?”

“Your sister said your mother died of illness.”

Another beat. His smile faded, but he held Takasugi’s gaze, blue eyes bright and intense. At first, Takasugi attributed it to wariness, but when Kamui’s expression suddenly closed, something hit home. Kamui hadn’t been looking at him with resentment, but something like confused dependence.

Raindrops drummed against the window, and he glanced at the dark glass reflecting the objects in the room. Lights, a low table, a bed, a closet, books, and himself. He blinked, and the image went from foreign to familiar, like a piece of memory snapping back in place. Suppressing a sigh, he extended his arm to lower the curtain, and Kamui shifted to the floor in response. When their eyes met again, he found a faint smile on Kamui’s face.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Kamui said. “Who was he?”

Takasugi paused for a moment before he remembered whom they had been talking about, and he bit back the urge to evade the question for a second time. “He took care of me after my parents died,” he decided to say.

“When was that?” Kamui asked quietly.

A fleeting, bitter smile. “Too long ago,” he replied.

Was he still counting? The days before the trip, the day of the crash, the days at the hospital, the months at the orphanage, the years with Shoyo-sensei, and the years after...

“What are you going to do after you find out who did it?”

Takasugi’s jaw tightened. He’d thought about this. He’d thought about this a lot, even though a part of him, too small to make a difference, had already accepted the idea that some rocks were impossible to penetrate no matter how long the water had been dripping on it. Even so, he lived for the day that he could bash the murderer’s head into concrete, maybe repeatedly—because fighting the world over the aftermath was easier, much easier, than dealing with the world as it stood right now.

“What do you think?”

Kamui smiled. “Fight me after you fight him.”

Takasugi let out a soft laugh. “And what are you going to do after you lose?”

Kamui’s smile widened into a grin. “I like that confidence,” he said. “Now I’m really looking forward to it.”

And suddenly, Takasugi felt like he was making another empty promise, one that came out of nowhere and had no purpose. As if he’d stopped on a winding path to admire the surroundings only to notice he had no idea where he was or how he got there. But he knew where he wanted to go, so maybe that was all that mattered. He looked at Kamui, at the smile that said nothing and everything, and wondered how much of their parallel paths were merely accidental and temporary.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Takasugi said, “It stopped hailing, and it’s getting late. When are you heading home?”

Kamui’s gaze drifted from Takasugi to the clock and then to the floor before it returned to Takasugi. “I can leave whenever. I hadn’t expected I’d run into you at all today,” he added after a pause, his smile almost stoic, almost grateful.

“That makes two of us,” Takasugi murmured, furrowing his brows when Kamui’s smile dropped ever so slightly and briefly that he nearly missed it. “Where do you live?” he asked all of the sudden, recalling the conversation with Kagura.

“Why? Do you want to walk me back?”

“I just have the feeling that you’ll run off to somewhere obscure if I let you leave by yourself,” Takasugi remarked dryly, ignoring the whisper in his head that was reminding him of what’d happened the last time someone had left the house to go somewhere in the rain. “Where would you have gone if we’d missed each other this evening?”

“I can go anywhere with an umbrella,” Kamui responded, his distant smile bearing an odd resignation. “It always rains today, you know? It’s funny.”

“Stay,” Takasugi said, staring at the floor between the two of them and listening to the rain. He didn’t believe that the heavens were mourning, and he didn’t believe that anything would happen either if Kamui had left then and there, but he knew that sometimes, they were just actors on a stage where they could choose different scripts on a whim. Go to dinner, or don’t go to dinner. Tell him to come upstairs, or don’t tell him to come upstairs. Ask him to stay, or don’t ask him to stay.

A motion in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he looked up, holding his breath when Kamui peered into his face, too close.

“What happened to your left eye?” Kamui asked, eyes searching and no longer smiling.

“Car accident.”

A pause. “Can I see?”

“There’s nothing to see,” Takasugi said, catching the hand reaching for his face. The two of them hesitated, but when Kamui leaned forward, Takasugi tugged the redhead toward him and released the hand in his grasp, unable to stop his heart from racing as they pressed their bodies together. Kamui was much easier to read, he realized, now that he could feel the redhead’s arms around his shoulders and breath on his skin. A house of cards, he thought, tightening his arms around Kamui’s waist. I see.

 

 


	6. that’s all just wishful thinking

After his gaze focused on the word “The” for the fifth time, Takasugi tossed the textbook onto his desk and tucked his hands behind his head, rocking his chair on its legs as he glanced at the front of the classroom. On the blackboard, someone had crossed out the words “skooberry milk” and scribbled “school festival” underneath.

“—will be Mutsu and Kijima,” Ginpachi was saying in a lazy monotone. “And the—”

Matako jumped up from her seat and exclaimed, “But what about Shinsuke-sama?”

“Sit down,” Ginpachi said without looking up from the wrinkled piece of paper in his hand. “And the group that’s gonna be in charge of food is gonna be Kagura, Kondo, Takasugi, Tama, and Zura. Finally—”

“Sensei, it’s not Zura, it’s Katsura.”

“Finally, the group—”

“Sensei,” Matako interrupted, still standing. “We don’t need _five_ people preparing food. Shinsuke-sama can join us instead.”

“ _Finally_ ,” Ginpachi raised his voice. “The group that’s gonna be in charge of music is gonna be Kawakami, Hasegawa, and Terakado. Now you were saying?” Fixing his eyes on Matako, he crumpled the piece of paper into a ball and chucked it over his shoulder.

“I was saying that we don’t need five people preparing food, so Shinsuke-sama can—”

“What’s wrong with Mutsu?”

“Uh, there’s nothing wrong with Mutsu-senpai. We just don’t need—”

“I don’t see anyone else complaining about the group assignments.”

Kondo raised his hand. “Sensei, can Otae-san join our group?”

Shinpachi raised his hand. “Sensei, can I join Otsuu-chan’s group?”

Okita raised his hand. “Sensei, can I kill Hijikata-san?”

Ginpachi let out an exasperated sigh. “ _No_ ,” he said loudly, unwrapping a lollipop. “The groups are not changing. Class dismissed.” He glared at his students, stuck the pink lollipop into his mouth, and strode out of the classroom.

The door slammed shut, and the classroom exploded into various cheers and groans, some celebrating the end of the school day and some bemoaning their group assignments for the upcoming school festival. The faint smirk on Takasugi’s face faded away when he caught sight of Kagura and Katsura talking animatedly with each other. It was as if Ginpachi had wanted to rub it in his face, but for what purpose or what reason, he could only speculate.

“Shinsuke-sama,” Matako called out, but before she could make her way to his desk, Mutsu tapped on her shoulder and said something. Matako’s face flushed, and she shot Takasugi a sheepish glance before directing her attention to the notebook that Mutsu was holding up.

Bansai was talking to Otsuu, Nizo was examining bread with Yamazaki, Takechi was having some sort of staring contest with Catherine, Kondo was getting abused by Otae, Katsura was now conversing with Tama, and Kagura... Takasugi paused when Kagura met his gaze and started walking in his direction, but she stopped cold when Okita muttered something behind her with a sneer.

“I have very good taste, you bastard!” she yelled and kicked in his direction, knocking over an empty desk as a result. “My Mami taught me that all a person needs is good food and a good book! Why do you think I wear glasses—hey give me back my sukonbu, you damn sadist! Come back!” Shoving Shinpachi out of the way, she jumped over a desk and chased after Okita, leaving behind angry shouts as she ran into the hallway.

Takasugi furrowed his brows, suddenly remembering what Kamui had said the day before. He wouldn’t be surprised if the redhead had intentionally mangled his mother’s words, but there was something about everything that tugged at him in a way that he didn’t really like. People who build houses out of cards want them to go as high as possible, but everybody knows that they can fall at any time. And when that happens, some laugh, some sigh, some start over, some give up—and some pretend nothing ever happened.

Grabbing his bag, Takasugi pushed past his classmates and left the rowdy classroom, trying to forget the touch and the smell of the person who’d stayed over at his place for the night. It was a futile attempt, he realized when he spotted a purple umbrella and a familiar face by the school gate. Stopping in front of Kamui, he asked, “What are you doing here?”

Smiling, Kamui said, “We’re going to Yoshiwara Trade School.”

“And why are you going there?” Takasugi asked after Kamui when the latter turned to head down the street, toward the all-girls school of the district.

“You’ll know when we get there.”

 

Sometimes, Takasugi wasn’t sure whether meeting Kamui was a blessing or a curse. Right now, he was convinced it was the latter because nothing else could explain why they were hiding behind the corner of a building and spying on another student in the courtyard of Yoshiwara Trade School.

“That’s Abuto,” Kamui said in a low voice, directing his gaze at the person standing under a willow in the courtyard. “His mother owns the place we went for dinner yesterday.”

Takasugi stared at Kamui and then at Abuto, who was fidgeting with a bouquet of flowers. It was oddly reminiscent of certain scenes in Zura’s LaLa magazines he’d caught glimpses of in the classroom, and he could feel a headache coming. “This is absurd,” he uttered and turned, halting his footstep when Kamui grabbed his wrist.

“Someone’s watching us,” said Kamui, still looking at the courtyard.

Takasugi deadpanned. “I know.” There was an irritating amount of irony in their current situation, and he’d had enough. When Kamui shot him an inquiring glance, he raised his voice and said to the nearby trashcans, “Right, Bansai? Matako?”

There was a pause before Bansai and Matako slowly rose from behind the trashcans, one wearing his usual stoic expression and the other forcing a nervous chuckle.

“Wh-what a coincidence, Shinsuke-sama,” Matako said in an unnaturally high-pitched voice and laughed, scratching the back of her head.

“This looks intriguing, I daresay,” Bansai added shamelessly as he circled around the trashcans with Matako to join the two behind the building.

“I have to be somewhere,” Takasugi lied, wrapping his fingers around Kamui’s wrist as he tried to loosen the redhead’s grip on his other arm. The grip tightened in response, and he did the same in return, glowering as it turned into some sort of strength contest. Maybe the solution to this stealth operation was to start a fight and attract a whole lot of attention.

“Are you his friends?” Kamui asked, smiling at Bansai and Matako.

“Shinsuke-sama is our leader,” Matako said and frowned. “What do you think you’re—”

“The lady has arrived,” Bansai announced, and all four of them turned their heads toward the courtyard, catching sight of a long-blue-haired student walking up to Abuto.

Yoshiwara Trade School was famous for its beautiful students, and Kada was one of the few who’d made a name for herself. Takasugi narrowed his eye in frustration and looked away from the confession scene, glaring at Kamui instead, unable to fathom why they were here, doing this. His wrist was beginning to hurt, the smile on Kamui’s face was starting to get on his nerves, and something was upsetting his stomach. Suppressing a growl, he abruptly let go of his grasp on Kamui’s wrist and hid a smirk when puzzled blue eyes looked up at him. Before he could say something, Matako remarked, “Ah, she rejected him.”

Takasugi looked over to the courtyard in time to see Kada walk away from a dejected Abuto, but just when he thought the nonsense was over, Kamui said, “Let’s go get some food to cheer Abuto up. Yo Abuto!”

 

And so Takasugi found himself in the corner of a booth at Tenny’s, sitting between Matako and the window, facing a grouchy Abuto, while Kamui claimed the other seat across the table and Bansai pulled up an extra chair at the end. For some reason, his life sucked more than usual.

“What the hell were you thinking, you idiot?” Abuto murmured, giving Kamui a pained and defeated look.

“Food cheers people up,” Kamui said, chewing on a piece of steak.

“That’s not what I’m talking about! Why were you spying on me?”

“You ran off with a perverted look on your face immediately after school. It was the only way I could find you.”

“I did not have a perverted look on my face, you doofus!” Abuto protested. “And you’re the one hogging all the food!” He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So why were you looking for me? Why did you bring all these people along? Who are they?”

“What I told you this morning,” Kamui said around a mouthful of fries. “What’re you listening to?” he turned to Bansai and asked.

“Oh, have you heard of the Yoshida brothers?” Bansai said. “They...”

Abuto sighed again and buried his face in his palm for a moment before he glanced at Takasugi. “Were you the one who got into a fight with Yagan the other day?”

“What did he tell you?” Takasugi asked, furrowing his brows.

Abuto scratched his stubble and said in a quiet voice, “I would stay out of everything involving Yagan if I were you.” He hesitated and leaned forward. “I heard you were looking into the murder that happened near Harusame Middle School four years ago. I really don’t care about any of this, but this idiot here told me to talk to you, so I’ll just tell you what I know. Yagan’s brother is serving jail time for this murder, and I think he’s about to be paroled, so Yagan really hates that you’re stirring up trouble right now.”

“Was he really the one who committed the murder?”

Abuto shrugged. “Beats the hell outta me. Cops claimed they had physical evidence, but there’d been rumors saying he was framed. Rumors died down real quick, though.”

Takasugi clenched his jaw and looked out the window, thinking back on everything that’d happened over the past four years. Shoyo-sensei had been killed in a street dispute. The law enforcement had apprehended the culprit, who’d insisted that he hadn’t killed anyone. Takasugi had dismissed those words in anger four years ago, and he wasn’t interested in proving anybody’s innocence now, but the police had closed the case in such haste and kept it at the lowest possible profile that he felt as if something was missing. Asking around had only earned him odd or blank looks.

_It had nothing to do with the school. No, the victim had nothing to do with the school, but the culprit was a student there. No, he was from another school. Wait, I thought both of them were students. Y’know, so-and-so was arrested around that time. But so was this other person. Oh, you remember? There was—_

“Are you going to eat that?”

Takasugi blinked at Kamui’s voice and looked across the table, blinking again when he saw Kamui wearing Bansai’s headphones and pointing at his plate.

Matako objected. “Hey, that’s Shinsuke-sama’s—er...”

Takasugi pushed his plate across the table without a word and tore his gaze away from the redhead, but glanced back again, watching Kamui devour the chicken on his plate while Bansai was narrating something about music. The headphones looked weird on Kamui, and he felt the sudden urge to pluck the device from Kamui’s head and throw it out the window. What was he doing here again?

Kamui smiled at him, knowing and almost victorious. After a pause, Takasugi extended his hand across the table and said, “Let me listen to that.”

 

 


	7. we will become strangers

Music represented people’s souls, or so Bansai claimed.

If that were the case, Takasugi reflected, it would explain the discord between the world he now perceived and the world he’d once known. Even as “Chome Chome” assaulted his ear drums, he could hear the melody of his own song, cacophonic and out of tune with its original harmonic. He turned away from the loud stage and the rabid crowd at the school festival, replaying the words that Bansai had said to him the other day on their way to school.

_The one from Yato Industrial High is a strange one, I daresay. Most of the time, his song is silence, but on occasion, it would be simultaneous echoes of different tunes. I could hear yours among them, Shinsuke._

At that time, he hadn’t asked the musician what the other tunes were, but when he walked past the redhead’s sister and father in front of the Class 3Z booth, he paused. Zura, filled with vigor, was telling them something while his eccentric guardian chimed in with a placard every now and then. After watching them for a moment, Takasugi looked away and dismissed the thought that there could’ve been a time when he, too, would’ve been laughing together with them and Shoyo-sensei.

As he weaved through the crowd, breathing in the smell of fried food, he let his gaze roam from one smiling face to another, unable to comprehend the enthusiasm and excitement behind each facade. The world seemed foreign and detached in that instant, as if he’d stepped onto an alien landscape and didn’t know what anything was, let alone where he had to go or what he had to do. He was brushing against shoulders of strangers who could’ve helped but didn’t, outsiders who could’ve cared but didn’t. There was no need for distinction, he suddenly realized, between those who were involved and those who weren’t.

_It’s all their fault._

He jerked to a stop and blinked when someone held yakitori up to his face.

“It’s good,” Kamui said, his cheeks bulging and the corners of his mouth smudged with grease and sauce.

Takasugi stared at the redhead, his thoughts in a scramble and then blank. The blue eyes were smiling—and piercing.

“It’s good,” Kamui repeated.

“I don’t—” Takasugi started but stopped, and glanced at the grilled, skewered chicken in Kamui’s hand. Memories from the past festivals flooded back, and he reached for the yakitori, as hesitant and conflicted as he’d been the first time he’d accepted a dish of dango from Shoyo-sensei. Studying the yakitori in his hand, he said with a small smile, “All a person needs... is good food and a good book, isn’t it?”

Kamui’s smile was enigmatic. “Was that what I said?”

Fixing his gaze on Kamui, Takasugi replied carefully, “It was what your mother said.”

“Was it? I don’t remember,” Kamui murmured as he popped the last piece of chicken into his mouth and glanced at the surrounding stalls, the subtle strain in his smile reflecting a hint of loneliness. His gaze landed on something, and he grinned, turning back to Takasugi. “Wanna make a bet?”

“A bet?” Takasugi echoed, furrowing his brows when Kamui turned on his heel and started pushing his way through the crowd. He followed, chewing his yakitori, and cast the redhead a puzzled look when they arrived at the booth that Matako was manning.

“Shinsuke-sama!” Matako jumped up from her chair and beamed. “Are you—do you want to try out the shooting game?” she asked and held out an air pistol, crying out in protest when Kamui took it from her.

“How about it?” Kamui said to Takasugi. “If I hit it, you’ll buy me food. And if I miss...” He tilted his head as he considered his options for a moment before he declared, “Abuto will buy me food.”

“A non-zero sum game,” Takasugi remarked dryly, mildly irked that it was a win-win situation for Kamui and lose-lose for him, albeit one more so than the other.

“You think?” said Kamui. Ignoring Matako’s glare and puffed cheeks, he aimed the pistol at different targets, as if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to hit the bear or the tiger. He continued, “It seems pretty balanced to me, unless—” he lowered the pistol “—well, I guess we win or lose together.”

“It’s not much of a bet.”

Kamui smiled in response and placed the pistol on the table. “What do you suggest then?”

Letting out a light scoff, Takasugi looked at Matako and asked, “Do you have a coin?”

“Uh,” Matako said, blinking, and patted her skirt before she reached under the table and pulled out a small metal box, the coins inside clanking. She looked up and hesitated. “Are you sure about this, Shinsuke-sama?”

“If I win,” Takasugi said, meeting Kamui’s eyes, “call off our fight.”

Dark amusement filled Kamui’s expression, and the redhead added, “If I win, let go of what you’ve been chasing after.”

Takasugi chuckled, knowing that it wouldn’t be any fun if the stakes weren’t high. It was sort of morbid curiosity to leave something to chance, but mostly, it was an excuse. You were a loser only if you took it seriously. He glanced expectantly at Matako, who sighed and tossed a coin into the air.

“Heads,” Takasugi called.

Catching the coin, Matako shot a glance at both of them before she lifted her hand and revealed the face-up side.

“Ahh, I lost,” Kamui said, smiling. “That’s too bad. Oh well, I’m hungry. I’m gonna go get food. See ya.”

“Is he ever not hungry?” Matako muttered. “Oh, Shinsuke-sama!” she called out before Takasugi could go after the redhead and pulled out a folded piece of paper from her sleeve. “This is probably just a prank, but someone wanted me to give this to you.”

Narrowing his eye, Takasugi glanced between the note in Matako’s hand and the redhead who’d stopped in front of a takoyaki booth, and asked, “Who gave you that?”

“I don’t know, but it seemed like he was delivering this message for someone he didn’t know either. Uh, this is probably a prank. I can throw it away if you want, Shinsuke-sama.”

Takasugi snatched the piece of paper from Matako and flipped it open, frowning when there was only a name printed on the note.

_Kada._

“I-I can go after this person if you want me to, Shinsuke-sama,” Matako said quickly.

“There’s no need,” Takasugi said, tossing the note onto the table, and picked up his pace when he spotted Kamui leaving the takoyaki booth with a large box and disappearing into the crowd.

 

 


	8. (at this place right now) where did we go wrong

As he searched the crowd for the redhead, Takasugi replayed the coin flip over and over again in his mind, unable to shake off the wave of relief that’d washed over him when the coin had landed face-up. It was ridiculous, he told himself. He knew he would’ve disregarded his end of the bargain if he’d lost, so he’d expected the same of Kamui—not this, not the blithe acceptance seemingly devoid of disappointment. What were the two of them exactly?

Smelling the crepes before seeing them, he slowed to a stop in front of the booth and watched the student spread out the batter on the hot plate. There were few people in the world that others couldn’t “buy,” whether the payment was in cold, hard cash or something else. But he realized, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that he had no idea what Kamui’s favorite food actually was. Something was better than nothing, he decided, and asked the student at the booth for a box of crepes. Besides, as far as he could tell, Kamui had never expressed a real preference anyway.

The festival crowd was thinning, and the air, buzzing with idle chatter instead of earsplitting pop music, became light. Noting that he’d come full circle and returned to his starting point, Takasugi looked toward the stage, where volunteers were packing up the backline equipment now that the concert was over. His gaze trailed to a corner of the stage, and his chest tightened when he spotted Kamui talking to Bansai. The redhead’s braid obscured the embroidered words on the back of his coat—grandiose words that, at first glance, looked childish, obnoxious, and didn’t fit him at all. He appeared small, standing below the stage in front of Bansai, even though the musician was crouching on the platform and not towering over him. The exemplification of the phrase “looks can be deceiving,” really.

“Kawakami-senpai,” Takasugi heard another student call out as he approached the stage. “Kawakami-senpai!” she shouted into the microphone mounted on the stand in Bansai’s hand, and her voice amplified across campus. “Can you hear me?!”

Scattered laughter came from the crowd, and Bansai calmly rose to his feet. “I heard you the first time,” he answered, nodding to Takasugi in acknowledgement before walking off with the other student, microphone stand in tow.

Chewing on a piece of takoyaki, Kamui turned and met Takasugi’s gaze briefly. His eyes fell on the box of crepes and followed it when Takasugi placed it in front of him on the stage. He looked up again and stuffed another piece of takoyaki into his mouth.

“I never expected you to be someone who gave up so easily,” said Takasugi.

Kamui poked his toothpick into another takoyaki ball and replied, “It’s not fun fighting against someone who doesn’t want to fight anyway.”

“It would’ve been a pointless fight.”

Kamui smiled. “Most things in life are pointless. Don’t you think?”

Narrowing his eye, Takasugi searched the redhead’s expression for telltale changes, something indicative of dark humor, but he only found a neutral smile that anyone could’ve worn while informing others of the beautiful weather they were having today. His fists clenched as he mulled over everything he had done ever since Shoyo-sensei’s death and everything he had wanted to achieve as a result. Falling from a good student to a delinquent in order to wander the circles of hoodlums, watching his classmates move on while he pursued one dead-end after another... He thought about the rain and the sun that brought life and death, and the fleeting time they spent together, from the first meeting to the arbitrary wager. Was everything just something that could be carelessly picked up and then put down again like a pack of tissues?

“What do you really want?” he finally asked in a quiet voice as he wondered if the strings that entwined their fates would unravel or remain entangled.

_Are you courting death?_

Kamui tossed the toothpick into the empty takoyaki box and said, without looking up, “I just don’t want to lose to some small fry I can’t even see. I thought...” His voice trailed off, and he glanced at Takasugi with a small smile. “I guess this is where our roads diverge,” he said and, after a slight hesitation, walked past Takasugi, bringing with him a soft breeze, cool in the summer heat.

Takasugi’s lips curved up into a mocking smile, and in a fit of pique, he swept the untouched box of crepes to the ground. It landed with a splat, and he glowered at the space it left behind until a movement on the stage caught his eye.

“Would you like to play something?” Bansai asked, holding up his guitar as he settled himself on the edge of the platform next to Takasugi. When Takasugi turned to lean his back against the stage, both hands in his pants pockets, Bansai rested the guitar on his lap and continued, “Your song is erratic today, Shinsuke. His as well, I daresay, although his is more like white noise from a bad microphone picking up ambient sound.”

“Who?”

Strumming quiet chords on his guitar, Bansai said, “You know who I am referring to.”

“What does it have to do with me?”

Takasugi could feel Bansai’s eyes on him, but he kept his gaze on the playing field where people were setting up a large bonfire for the festival. The guitar fell silent, and Bansai asked, “Do you remember how we became acquainted?”

“You wanted me to join your band.”

“I still do,” said Bansai. “I liked your music, and Matako wanted to hear it as well. She even got into trouble with the pistol team for skipping practice to spend time with you,” he added, his voice laced with vague amusement. “Shinsuke,” he said in a low voice, ignoring the crash coming from the back of the stage. “We know we will always be second, and we are fine with that, but not everyone is like us.”

“Tsunpony!” someone shouted.

“Do you still know what you want, Shinsuke?”

“This is nonsense,” said Takasugi.

“Tsunpony!” Otsuu hollered through a megaphone. “Are you deaf fish head?”

“What is it this time and tide wait for no man?”

“We dropped the drum set sail for Laputa!”

Bansai sighed and got to his feet. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said before he took off, leaving Takasugi with heavy silence that lingered like a stubborn ghost seeking closure.

Maybe he had died then, in the car accident, when he lay among shards of glass in the cold water, and everything that came after was a very long dream that developed into a nightmare. The wishful thinking of a child who wanted a family, the rude awakening by his psychopomp who flung him to purgatory...

Shaking his head, Takasugi pushed himself away from the stage and started heading toward the school gate. The pale yellow full moon hung over the trees, and he glanced at it before he paused to stare at the two people conversing near the crowd that had gathered for the bonfire. He had always known what he wanted, he reminded himself as he made his way over to them. It had never changed.

Abuto raised an eyebrow when he noticed Takasugi approaching them, and Kada looked over her shoulder in response. Their eyes met, one with mistrust and the other with contempt but no sign of recognition otherwise.

“Hold it,” Takasugi said to both Abuto’s and Kada’s surprise when she turned on her heels. “I want to talk to you.”

Halting her footsteps, Kada regarded him with mild interest and said in a drawl, “Oh? What business do you have with me?”

There was a beat.

“What do you know about the murder near Harusame Middle School four years ago?” Takasugi asked, knowing that it was a wild stab in the dark.

Abuto gaped at him while apprehension flitted across Kada’s face before her expression closed. “You are talking to the wrong person,” she said slowly.

“Oi,” Abuto said to Takasugi. “Have you lost it?”

Clenching his fists and feeling his fingernails digging into the skin of his palm, Takasugi said, “Someone saw you.” It was a lie, but even in the flickering bonfire light partially blocked by groups of people, he could see the colors drain from Kada’s face.

Her voice was harsh when she spoke again. “Like I said, you are talking to the wrong person.”

His stomach churned, and he grabbed Abuto’s fist in a swift motion when the latter reached for his collar.

“Hey punk,” Abuto said in a low, menacing tone. “Is Yagan behind this?”

Takasugi returned Abuto’s hard gaze and tightened his grip on the other’s fist, his thoughts racing and raging. Nothing mattered anymore: not the wrong turns or the dead-ends, not the people he’d encountered along this twisted journey, and definitely not anything that would stand in his way. He wanted—

“Oi oi,” a familiar, obnoxious voice sounded from their side. “What’s going on here? It’s the festival, so let’s all get along, shall we?” Ginpachi said, giving them a weary yet piercing look as if anything besides eating his strawberry parfait was an exertion and anything interrupting the savoring of his strawberry crepe was a nuisance.

Abuto and Takasugi let go of their grasp on each other with a shove, and the former hurried after Kada when she stalked off, passing Ginpachi, her eyes burning with fury and humiliation. Ginpachi shot a glance after them before he turned to Takasugi and said, “Are you _trying_ to get yourself kicked out?”

Takasugi remained silent, his gaze fixed on the two retreating figures and his teeth clenched. He took an abrupt step to the side but stopped when Ginpachi stuck his hand out in an equally abrupt manner and waved his roll of crepe in front of Takasugi’s face.

“Want some?” Ginpachi said. “It’ll help with your low blood sugar.”

Takasugi scowled. “Are you mocking me?”

Pulling back his arm, Ginpachi sighed and, after casting Takasugi a long look, nodded toward the bonfire. “Why don’t we join them and enjoy the rest of the festival? Hm?”

The corner of Takasugi’s eye twitched. “Sometimes I really despise you.”

“That’s fine,” Ginpachi said, glancing at the night sky. “Better me than someone else, y’know?” He dipped the crepe into the parfait and added, “Eh, do what you want. Just don’t cause anymore trouble. No teachers want to see their student expelled. Not me... not anyone else. The paperwork is a major pain in the ass.”

The shift in Ginpachi’s tone, from apathy to a flash of grief to annoyance, caused Takasugi to pause. Before him, he could see, once again, the lilies, the peonies, and the chrysanthemums. Studying Ginpachi’s distant and bored expression, Takasugi asked, not knowing what he wanted to hear, “Were you the one who brought the flowers to Shoyo-sensei’s grave?”

“Yeah,” Ginpachi replied, examining the red and white swirl in his parfait as if it were the most intriguing feature in the world. “He was my senior in university,” he added as an afterthought.

“And it never bothered you how he died?” Takasugi asked, taken aback by the calmness in his voice. His heart was pounding against his chest. He felt so awfully blind.

“What do you want to take away from the person who inadvertently caused his death?” Ginpachi asked, looking at Takasugi. There was no reproach in his expression, no sharpness in his tone, and barely any curiosity. “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

The nonchalance coating Ginpachi’s words was like glass gashing his skin. Takasugi stared. “That’s absurd,” he said after a few failed attempts at repeating the word accident. “He died from a knife wound.”

“She didn’t mean to stab him. It was an accident.”

The words sank in, one by one, the pain so intense that none of them really registered except one. “You know who it was,” Takasugi said in a harsh whisper. “You... She... Was it that woman?”

Ginpachi’s expression softened. “Let it go, Takasugi.”

Takasugi grabbed Ginpachi’s collar, his grip trembling with anger. “You expect me to listen to you? This isn’t a joke. How do you know what happened? How can that be an accident? Why—”

“If you aren’t able to listen now, would you have listened four years ago?”

“What?”

“Oi!” a girl’s voice shouted. Kagura and Katsura came flying out of the crowd toward them, and Kagura continued, “What the heck is going on?”

“Have you lost your mind?” Katsura shouted, reaching for Takasugi’s arm, and pried the piece of clothing out of the latter’s grasp. “What is wrong?”

Paying no attention to his classmates, Takasugi glared at Ginpachi and turned. He jerked to a stop when Ginpachi seized _his_ collar.

“Normally I’d just let you do whatever you want, but you’re not thinking right now,” Ginpachi said. “Kagura, good timing. Could you grab your dad?”

“Eh?” Kagura blurted out. “Why?”

“Just do it,” Ginpachi said, and watched Kagura hesitate for a moment before running back to the crowd. He glanced at Katsura, something simmering meeting concern, but when he spoke, he was talking to Takasugi. “Teachers are supposed to protect their students,” he said and repeated it again in a whisper. “Teachers are supposed to protect their students...”

 

 


	9. you said farewell to me

“Rain rain go away, come again another day...”

“Your singing still sucks,” you tell your mother, smiling in spite of yourself.

She chuckles and heaves a sigh, as if every word she utters and every action she takes expend her energy. Holding your mother’s gaze in concern, you notice how murky her blue eyes have become, and your smile fades.

“Why don’t you sing for me?” she challenges you with a faint smirk.

“What? No. It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s only embarrassing if you’re as off-key as I am.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, feigning indignation. For a brief moment, you entertain the idea of humoring your mother and showing her that you can, in fact, sing, but something about being in a hospital puts a lump in your throat. You’ve been spending so much time here that you can’t smell the antiseptic anymore, and it bothers you.

Your mother tilts her head and looks at you. “When was the last time I heard you sing? It was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Someone’s birthday... Ahh, I remember now. You were five. You and your sister baked a cake for Papi and made a mess in the kitchen. Then one of you tripped when you were carrying the cake to the table.”

“It wasn’t me,” you say, maybe a bit too quickly.

“That was before you two started school,” your mother continues, a distant expression settling over her face. “I never heard you or your sister sing after that.”

Tightening your jaw, you look away and fix your gaze on the large window in the room, at the rain water streaming down the glass. The sound is soothing, you find, with its chaotic beats that speak of protection, unlike the silent light rays from the sun, bright and blinding. Deadly.

“Rain rain go away, come again another day,” your mother starts again, sounding a bit more in tune this time, but also a bit lonelier. “Little Kamui wants to play...”

“Hey!” you cry out, and your mother lets out a few soft laughs before she brings her hand to her mouth, attempting to hide the coughs. “I’m not little anymore,” you manage to say while you try to ignore the light wheeze in your mother’s breath. There are so many tubes connected to her hand and arm.

“No, you’re not,” she says lightly, wearing a faraway smile. Different emotions flicker across her face, mixing into something dreamy as she regards you and the times both behind and before you. Joy, grief, followed by disappointment and guilt. Knowing what’s coming next, you shift your gaze and force your hands to remain relaxed. “You should go back to school,” she tells you, her voice low and firm.

“I will,” you murmur, but leave out when you will. Even though your mother deems it silly that you’ve treated every day for the past four months as if it’s her last, you know what you’re ready to do in order to spend every possible minute here in this hospital room. Outside, school has become a building where you go to waste life away, and home has reduced to an apartment where you go to escape bad weather. You liked neither. You disliked the hospital as well, but here, at least there is—

“Your sister is late today,” your mother remarks, glancing out the window. “It’s really pouring out there. I hope everything’s okay.”

“She’ll be fine. You look tired.”

At your words, your mother turns and smiles, sinking deeper into her propped pillow while she keeps an eye on the door.

“Do you want me to read this book to you?” you ask and pick up the new paperback on the bedside table. There is a black-and-white swirl on the cover, with the title in white block letters. The nurse taking care of your mother has been bringing new books to her every couple weeks on request, and sometimes you would read them to her until she falls asleep.

“No. It’s okay,” she whispers after you’ve flipped to the first page.

You look up and pause at the sight of your mother’s crestfallen expression, your heart skipping a beat. Raindrops drum against the windowpane, and conversations hum in the hallway. Wordless, you shut the book and return it to the table, wishing time could stand still right then.

 

_Everybody falls, and we all land somewhere._

 

Ten minutes later, your sister pushes open the door with her shoulder and exclaims, “Stupid truck drove right over the pothole and turned me into chicken soup. I swear I’m gonna crush the driver’s balls the next time I see him. He was speeding, too! In this awful weather. Argh.” After dumping a soaked backpack, a pile of wet clothes, and a dripping umbrella onto the floor, she makes her way across the room and asks, “How’re you feeling, Mami?”

“You had dry clothes with you?” your mother asks.

“Yup.” As indication, your sister tugs on the collar of her yellow T-shirt, a size too big for her, and pulls up another chair next to you. “How’re you feeling, Mami?”

“You know you can get hot drinks from the vending machine, right? I don’t want you to catch a cold. And be careful of the traffic on rainy days like this—”

“Yeah, I know. I can take care of myself. I even made my own lunch today.”

“Burnt rice,” you mumble under your breath and catch your sister’s fist before it hits your stomach. The corner of her mouth twitches as she glares at you, and you smile in return.

“I have your homework,” she suddenly announces and yanks her hand out of yours. Getting to her feet, she grabs her backpack and tosses two soggy notebooks to you while you suppress the urge to rip them apart.

“They’re wet,” you say stupidly and sneak a glance at your mother, who’s watching the two of you with a faint, tired smile from under her blanket.

“Yes, they are. They were in the rain.” Scooting her chair over to the bedside table, your sister hands you a pen and pushes aside the other items on the table. “You can still write on them, so do your homework.”

“What are quadratic equations?”

Your sister gives you an exasperated look. “I know you know what those are. Stop complaining and let Mami rest.”

“I’m hungry.”

Your sister lets out a hiss but then cuts it off. “Yeah, I’m hungry too,” she says. “Food time?”

“Food time.”

“Okay, we’ll be right back. Mami, you want anything?”

The two of you pause and exchange a small smile when you realize that your mother has fallen asleep. Tiptoeing into the hallway, you click the door shut behind you and head toward the cafeteria downstairs, bickering along the way.

 

“Will you just. Please. Stop. Using my shampoo?! You have more hair than I do! Why can’t you buy your own stupid shampoo?”

“I don’t have time to go shopping.”

“You will if you stop hiding in the hospital all day long. The nurses might start thinking _you’re_ the patient.”

“Why don’t you buy it for me?”

“I’m not your nanny! Or use Papi’s shampoo. A baldy like him doesn’t need it anyway. And it won’t make you smell like strawberry.”

“Your shampoo isn’t strawberry.”

“Uh, yeah it is.”

“Wait, it is?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Well, next time get something that’s, I don’t know, neutral.”

“Oh no, I’m gonna get the girliest shampoo on this planet and you can’t stop me. Heh.” Your sister flashes you a devious grin before she pushes down the door handle with her elbow and slides into your mother’s room. You follow, chewing on the meat bun and thinking of another excuse to avoid doing homework.

“I’ll stop using your shampoo if I don’t have to do homework,” you whisper.

“Nice try. Do you know when Papi’s getting here?”

Stuffing the rest of the meat bun into your mouth, you sit down on your chair and examine your greasy fingers. Then you reach over to your sister in an attempt to wipe your fingers on her sleeve, but she smacks your arm aside with an astounded and disgusted look on her face. Kicking at you, she strikes the leg of your chair when you lift your foot but gets your shin the second time. You don’t feel anything; instead, you’re staring at your mother’s face, no longer able to see or hear the rest of the world around you.

Someone presses the nurse call button.

 

When you open your eyes, you’re lying on a leather couch in a small lounge. The ceiling light is blazing white, and the thin blanket on you smells musty. You blink, hearing murmuring voices that sound familiar but are somehow far away. Raising your head to look over the top of the round table at the center of the room, you catch sight of your sister standing in the doorway, wiping her eyes with her wrists, and nodding at someone’s words.

“—it’s hard, but there’s not much we can do right now. I’m sorry, Kagura. I... They need my help over there. I’ll be right back, okay? I can...” His voice fades to a whisper, and you don’t catch the rest of the sentence.

“Okay,” your sister says, her voice choking. She sniffs and puts on her glasses while you lower your head, strangely resentful of everything that has just occurred. Everything that you can’t seem to remember except for the foul taste it’s left in your mouth.

“What is he doing?” you ask, and your sister spins around, alarmed.

Her eyes meet yours for an instance, and then she looks away. “Apparently there was an accident, and he’s a witness. He’s talking to the cops right now.”

“What accident?”

“I don’t know.” Your sister shrugs and takes a seat by the round table, hugging herself. “You alright?”

“What?”

“I’m asking if you’re okay. You...”

“I’m hungry,” you reply, sitting up on the couch, and chuck the blanket to a corner. “What time is it?”

“Late,” she says simply.

“You want anything?” you ask, rising to your feet.

“Not really.”

Your sister is watching you with an odd look, partly worried and partly just plain weird. Biting back the comment that her puffy eyes behind her thick glasses make her look like a dumb fart, you step into the hallway that’s quiet and foreign. You turn to your sister, her back facing you, but you turn away again, deciding that you can find your way around without anyone’s help. You take a right.

You pass the women’s bathroom, a ward, and another ward. At the first intersection, you look down the other corridor and spot two elevators at the end, but you realize, after you enter the elevator, that you’re probably in a different wing than you used to be.

Why?

When the elevator doors open with a ding on the first floor, you recognize the main lobby of the hospital, and you let a nurse pushing a patient on a wheelchair pass before you pick your way across the marble floor.

“Out of my way!” you hear someone call out, and you manage to twist your body to the side before the two of you crash into each other. Dark hair. About your size. Drenched to the bone. You stare after him, miffed, hoping that he’ll slip and plant pretty face first onto the shiny marble.

 

By the time you return to the lounge, carrying ten Big Macs in a paper bag, your sister is asleep at the table, her arms folded beneath her head. Seating yourself across from her, you pull out the boxes of burgers, pausing when a hushed conversation grows a little louder.

“—and your collective elite asses—”

“This isn’t about saving our collective asses, although they are certainly elite, Sakata-san. The girl.” An abrupt pause. “Is with a doctor. We can’t have any more damage coming out of that. Please understand.”

Another pause. Longer, this time.

“How is she?”

“Managing.” A beat. “I’m sorry it was too late for your friend.”

“Worry about the kid first.” A softer tone.

And then you see a man with silver, permed hair walk past the door. A slightly slouched posture. A sideways glance.

Regret. And recognition.

Time has stopped since.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book that Kamui was about to read to his mother is _Spin_ by Robert Charles Wilson.
> 
> "Everybody falls, and we all land somewhere" is the first line of that novel.


	10. if we can just share our loneliness

The evening breeze brought the distant bonfire smoke and the murmuring sound of people’s chatter to the rooftop, gentle and warm, soothing and dispersive, like the ocean breeze at the beach where Shoyo-sensei had taken him on their first outing. He remembered the salt in the air, the coarseness of the sand, and the smile in Shoyo-sensei’s voice when he said: _This is how you eat a chuubert._

Teeth clenched, Takasugi tightened his grip on the rail, feeling the metal heat up under his skin and the pressure squeeze against the old injury in his left arm. External pain relieved internal pain, but he remembered so much—so, so much. Asking him to let it go, just like that, was nothing more than betraying everything that he ever was.

Wasn’t it?

He tensed at the sound of footsteps approaching him from behind and forced his grip on the rail to relax, blinking when that person held up a small carton of strawberry milk to him.

“Here,” Ginpachi said.

Taking it, almost on reflex, he suddenly felt as if he were back in the teacher’s office, listening to the creak of the ceiling fan and waving off mosquitoes while he tried to absorb Umibozu’s recounting of that night’s incident. It was what he wanted, yet not what he wanted, dumped inelegantly onto the table belonging to a grayer world.

_He said to me, “It’s not her fault. It’s not anybody’s fault. It was just unfortunate.”_

Those could hardly become famous last words, and a part of Takasugi felt forgotten and abandoned, for the second time, for the third time... He opened the carton of milk and took a swig, making a face when the nauseating sweetness hit the back of his throat. The cold liquid was overwhelming and disgusting, but at least it washed away the bitterness in his mouth, replacing it with something numb.

“He might not’ve thought that he would die,” Ginpachi said, as if reading Takasugi’s thoughts, his back leaning against the rail. “Might’ve never admitted the possibility. He really cared for you, y’know. Loved you.”

“How would you know?”

Sighing, Ginpachi tilted his head backward and rested an elbow on top of the rail. “Hang out with these people as peers and you’ll find out,” he grumbled, shaking his own carton of strawberry milk like it was a glass of liquor. “Men my age only know how to brag about their wives and kids. Show off photos of their beautiful daughters or sons that they are so proud of whenever we go for a drink after work. Aghh, it was a pain listening to them when all I had in my wallet was a lousy picture of a stupid dog that hates my guts.”

_She was raped and tried to kill herself. It was a sad outcome of school cliques. I guess Yoshida-san had wanted to help._

“Who was the girl?” Takasugi asked, attempting to push away the weight on his chest, the conflict between having nothing but memories to cling onto and knowing that those were far from enough.

“Not the one you were picking a fight with earlier,” Ginpachi replied, then hesitated. “I’ve forgotten her name.”

Takasugi furrowed his brows. “The instigator, then?” He looked at Ginpachi, who shrugged in response.

“Who knows? Sometimes it’s better to let things be. What’s gonna change? The world’s a big place. There are many other things that we can hold on to. Right?” Their eyes met, and there was a glimmer of trust, then Ginpachi smiled and pushed himself away from the railing. “Well, I have to go feed a dog. Don’t forget you’re still on duty this Monday.”

Suppressing a smile, Takasugi raised a hand in salutation as Ginpachi walked away, and turned his gaze toward the night sky tainted by a hue of yellow from the bonfire and the city lights. He could see two stars twinkling, but nothing more.

“There’s a world around each star?”

“There are many worlds around each star, and there are trillions and trillions of stars.”

“Is there a world where nobody gets hurt?”

Shoyo-sensei’s smile had been kind. “I’m sure there is, Shinsuke. I’m sure there is.”

 

He saw him lying under a willow tree next to the river two days later, his umbrella folded by his side. Takasugi’s steps slowed before he took an abrupt turn and walked up to the tree, resolute. The thick gray clouds hung low in the sky, barely moving or changing. Leaning over Kamui, Takasugi paused when eyes like the hidden blue sky looked up at him and focused upon recognition.

“Oh,” Kamui said, snapping the pocky stick in his mouth in half. He sat up and twisted his head around with a smile. “Hi.”

“You owe me a fight.”

Kamui’s smile widened, contemptuous. “No, I don’t.”

Takasugi tried again, ignoring the fast pace of his heartbeat. “I owe you a fight,” he said slowly.

“You did.”

“What if the coin had been rigged?”

“It wasn’t.”

“It could’ve been.” _Should’ve been._

Kamui’s smile faded, his gaze partly searching and partly suspicious. In a swift motion, he blocked the knee strike to his head and pushed himself to his feet with a sideways roll. The smile returned to his face, more taunting than thrilled. “You weren’t very serious about that,” he remarked.

Takasugi responded with a wry smile and tossed his school bag to the base of the tree. His gaze drifted from the redhead’s face to the word “dragon” on the latter’s black T-shirt before it jumped back to his face, where it stayed. He would never lose again, Takasugi told himself as he swung a fist at Kamui—both someone and to someone.

With his right arm parried, Takasugi bit back a wince when Kamui caught his left arm in a strong grip that triggered a dull pain in the mended bone. Grabbing Kamui’s wrist at the same time the redhead kicked under his feet, he yanked Kamui toward him as he fell, and stopped the fist aimed at his face after they landed on the ground. His heart pounded, and they stared at each other, breathless.

“That was dumb,” Kamui said in a low voice, not moving from his kneel, both hands still in Takasugi’s grasp.

“What was?”

Kamui forced a smile. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Takasugi hesitated, looking at Kamui, unable to parse a thought as he watched the poker face that wanted to say nothing but in fact said everything. “Yeah,” he uttered after a long pause, even if it was a lie, because it was the truth.

“What are you going to do now?”

Letting go of Kamui’s hands, Takasugi said, “Stay here.”

Kamui’s smile faltered, but he didn’t pull back. Takasugi could tell that he wanted to say something, maybe many things, but after a moment of silence, he only leaned forward until their breaths mingled and lips touched.

 

 


	11. it might not have come to this

Obon is about the food, Kamui notes. Obviously.

And yet, here he is, standing on the river bank, watching people float lanterns down the stream. Biting on his dango stick, he crouches next to Takasugi and watches as the latter strikes a match and lights the candle in each lantern. There is slight hesitation before the third and final one, but his expression is stoic when he extends his arm to light the candle and then pulls back to blow out the flame on the match. Katsura is also watching, waiting with two lit lanterns of his own.

Kamui remains on his spot while the two of them step toward the river and push the lanterns one by one onto the water. The floating lights drift away from the bank, joining hundreds of others gliding into the night. He looks up when someone stops beside him, and finds his sister giving him a small smile.

“I got a lantern for Mami,” she tells him as she sits down on the grass and places the paper lantern before them. “Do you want to light it?”

He looks toward the river. “You can do it.”

A beat. “I think you should do it,” Kagura says in a quiet voice.

“I prefer sky lanterns.”

“No, you don’t,” Kagura grumbles. After a pause, she scoots closer, causing Kamui to lean away, and puts on her sweetest devil smile. “I’ll buy you two sticks of dango.”

“Only two?”

“Okay, five.”

Instead of replying, Kamui fixes his gaze on the two people walking toward them, his eyes meeting Takasugi’s.

“I’ll also do your laundry next week,” Kagura adds.

He stares at the river, his heart skipping a beat when Takasugi walks past him and taps the top of his head, swift and light. The night comes back to him, filled no longer with silence but with the soft drumming of rain against the glass, marking the passage of time more so than the motions of the sun, moon, and stars. He doesn’t need to turn around to know who is standing behind him, and he finds an odd comfort in that. “Make that two weeks and we have a deal,” he says to his sister.

“Done.” Kagura hands him a box of matches and mutters, “Asshole.”

“Bitch,” Kamui responds and glances from the matchbox in his hand to the lantern in front of him. He smiles.

_So it has come to this._

 

**Author's Note:**

> [The inspiration](https://xkcd.com/1022/) for this fic. Some chapter titles are modified from the lyrics of "Only One" by BoA.


End file.
